Riding Rockets

To go to the Seychelles is to die and go to heaven. The nation is a collection of islands a thousand miles east of Africa just south of the equator in the bath-warm waters of the Indian Ocean. The beaches are white, the surf is turquoise, and both are filled with topless vacationing Scandinavian women. As if that isn’t enough of a temptation, many of the local island women are beautiful manhunters. Their preferred quarry are American men, as they represent a means of escape to the land of the Big BX (the USA). At a party hosted by the tracking site commander, Hawley and I learned just how aggressive they could be. A young and exceptionally beautiful woman came to us and requested our autographs. “Sure, we’d be happy to sign something for you,” I replied. I was expecting her to hand over one of the space shuttle photos we had previously distributed but, instead, she pulled up her skirt, thrust a cheek of her ass in my face, and asked me to sign her panties. I searched my memory but couldn’t remember “ass signing” being covered in our JSC training. I looked at Hawley and suggested, “To refuse could cause an international incident.” We had been cautioned by the resident state department official not to alienate the locals, as the United States was in sensitive negotiations with the island’s current Dictator for Life. Steve concurred: “It’s our NASAduty to fulfill her request.” That settled it. I turned my pen to the silky fabric, only to be struck by the limited real estate. Her petite posterior didn’t give me a lot to work with. But astronauts love a challenge. In a font so tiny I could have penned the Declaration of Independence on a grain of rice, I leisurely inscribed on the side of her underwear,Richard Michael Mullane, Major, United States Air Force, Astronaut, National Aeronautical and Space Administration. I was thinking of adding,In the Year of Our Lord One Thousand Nine Hundred and Eighty and the date, but Hawley was getting impatient. If anybody’s hand should be on that heinie, it was his. He was the bachelor of our duo, a fact that had spread across the island on the coconut telegraph as fast as a trade wind. This young woman had probably set her sights on him when we stepped off the plane. I finally capped my pen and she immediately presented her other cheek for Steve and he began his treatise. The things we do for our country. There ought to be a medal awarded to men who return from the Seychelles. Bachelors, like Hawley, should get the Order ofI Walked Away from Heaven with accouterments of oak leaf clusters, laurel wreaths, dangles, bobbles, flames, and shooting stars.

As if the local women weren’t enough, Hawley and I also discovered the vacationing Dereks…as in John and Bo Derek. Even among the hard-bodied, oil-smeared Danish pastries decorating the beach, Bo stood out. To say she was a “Ten” didn’t do her justice. She made a Step-ford Wife look like a hag. Unfortunately, she wasn’t topless. Nor was she jogging down the beach in slow motion. But, like Dudley Moore’s famous character, I had an active imagination.

Hawley and I debated whether or not to approach the star, a debate that lasted about as long as it takes a quark to decay. We were at her side in a flash, mumbling and stuttering like Dumb and Dumber. I think I blurted out, “I want to have your baby!”

We made sure to include the title “astronaut” in our introduction. John, at least, was impressed by that and asked us several questions about the upcoming launch of STS-1, including some technical questions about landing speeds and glide path angles. Bo didn’t ask us anything. In fact, she didn’t say much at all. Maybe it was the way Hawley leered at her. Surely it couldn’t have been me. We learned the couple was taking a break before the filming of that celluloid classicTarzan, the Ape Man. I said to Bo, “Me Tarzan. You Jane.” John looked at my 145-pound frame and said, “I don’t think so.”

“How about Cheetah?” I certainly had the chimp ears to qualify. But, once again, I was rejected.

Hawley and I posed with Bo for some photos and said our good-byes. (Or maybe John said he was going to call the island police if we didn’t leave. I can’t recall.) I couldn’t wait to get back and phone every male I had ever met in my entire life beginning with my high school classmates and scream, “Eat your hearts out! Guess who I met?”

Back in Houston, when Judy Resnik heard our story, she began to call me Tarzan. For the rest of her short life, she never again called me Mike. Always Tarzan.